


Well, No, That’s an Understatement

by Pforte



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Future Fic, M/M, Moderately Canon Compliant, Rimming, Unreliable Narrator, no pining, up to a point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pforte/pseuds/Pforte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back when Stiles was in high school he did neither have an all-consuming heart-shaped crush on Derek nor was he desperately in lust with him. Derek is staggeringly handsome, sure, but Stiles got used to it years ago, when the most striking features of Derek were murderous intent, big teeth and glowing eyes. He used to think of Derek with plenty of homicidal anger, annoyance, a healthy dose of fear and eventually grudging affection. None of these past associations explains the breath-stealing sex that had just happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well, No, That’s an Understatement

They are a hopelessly entangled mess, jizz-stained sheets and sweaty limbs, all haphazardly strewn together. Stiles is hot and sticky and still too breathless to care. 

“Fuck,” he says because that is really all there is to say.

Derek makes a noise which Stiles generously counts as participatory, as he slumps back and buries his head into a pillow. Stiles’ nose itches where beads of sweat tickle the skin. But. Moving. Hard. 

He wakes up later – quite a bit later considering the dim sunlight crawling lazily through the dusty window. Derek is still there. Of course he is, it is his bed after all. _Fuck_ , Stiles thinks this time. So this happened. Kind of out of nowhere. So very much out of nowhere that he had not seen it coming this morning. 

Stiles had returned to Beacon Hills for Coach Finstock’s funeral, which felt more like a school reunion, judging from the throng of former students who attended. And now he is in Derek Hale’s loft, his bed, after a round of great (that bit is unsurprising), sober (that is very surprising) sex that left him too boneless and content to shift his arm away from Derek’s side. In-between event one (the funeral) and event two (the sex) there had been lunch with Scott, Kira and Danny, who still live in Beacon Hills, and Lydia who does not, and running into Derek at the gas station. Derek had been at the funeral, too, but stood apart from the others. Beacon Hills cemetery, he explained a bit later in his soft voice, was forever home to more people Derek cared about than he had among the living. So at the gas station Stiles had to do a double-take because, while Derek looked handsome in a bespoke black suit, there was no leather jacket and he no longer drove his trademark Camaro but a silver compensation car instead. Huh. Even stranger, Derek had smiled, wide and sincere, and said, “Stiles!” Warmly. 

Stiles isn’t unhealthily self-deprecating anymore; he knows that saving someone’s life repeatedly changes things, even if all they shared were threats and danger. When Stiles left Beacon Hills for college five years ago, he left in the knowledge that Derek, who had upgraded from homeless lurking with menace to Spartan home ownership, no longer considered Stiles a threat – to his sanity, mostly. When Stiles left they hadn’t been friends exactly but they were allies who trusted each other with their lives. Even the wall-smashing and room-stalking eventually stopped. Stiles still held a grudge for Derek’s fucking up their lives as Alpha but this could be balanced out by him and Scott accusing the man of murder. Twice. But the Derek wearing a well-cut black suit _smiled_ and invited Stiles for coffee to catch up. Like friends did. And Stiles agreed and followed Derek in his car to a new coffee shop – well, new for Stiles since he visited Beacon Hills only three times a year – where they sat and talked for a couple of hours before moving it over to Derek’s much improved loft (fluffy carpets! decorative furniture!). Derek made a vegetable stir-fry, which was unfairly delicious, and then suddenly Stiles was stripped naked and pressed against Derek and…yeah. 

Back when Stiles was in high school he did neither have an all-consuming heart-shaped crush on Derek nor was he desperately in lust with him. Derek is staggeringly handsome, sure, but Stiles got used to it years ago, when the most striking features of Derek were murderous intent, big teeth and glowing eyes. He used to think of Derek with plenty of homicidal anger, annoyance, a healthy dose of fear and eventually grudging affection. None of these past associations explains the breath-stealing sex that had just happened. Five years ago, it would have been impossible (the real thing, not like ‘werewolves are impossible’). Stiles found out only in his second year at college that he was bisexual, even though in hindsight there had been clues. Many, _many_ clues. His own sexual awakening aside, Stiles never considered the possibility that Derek, too, plays for both teams, but then Stiles has never really thought about Derek’s sexuality beyond the man’s fatal attraction to women who are out to use him, kill him or both. 

So when Stiles asks, “Did you ever think about doing any of this back then?” he is honestly curious because he did not see this coming. 

Derek’s eyebrows question his sanity. “You were a sixteen-year-old hyperactive spazz. A pain in my ass. Are you _insane_? No, I did not think about going down on you back then.”

Stiles snorts, fond of the familiar tone in Derek’s voice. This Derek is less off kilter, less volatile and closed-off, but he is still Derek. 

“You know, in the beginning I really thought you might kill me. Your looming stalker routine scared the crap out of me, dude.”

Derek’s smile is knowing and a little mean. “Yeah. Those were the days.”

Stiles elbows him in the ribs, knowing that it hurts him more than Derek. Derek just grins, showing teeth. Stiles can remember Derek smiling and grinning but his past smiles were sad and his past grins were cruel, so seeing him grinning _boyishly_ is just really…nice. 

“You were such a prick,” Stiles says, with feeling.

Derek huffs. “I was twenty and completely out of my depth.”

This gets Stiles’s attention. “Twenty? When we ran into you and you told us to get the fuck off your property you were _twenty_?”

“Yes?” Derek looks confused.

“Shit.” Stiles, at twenty-four, can now better understand why Derek sucked so spectacularly at playing patient parent to a bunch of teenage werewolves. Despite the leather jacket and the bad-boy routine it never crossed his mind that Derek had been so _young_. “Dude, your scowl and rapey eyes made you look thirty.” 

“I’m twenty-eight now and you thought I was – my what eyes?”

Stiles nods, thinking of how Scott and he had accused Derek of murder before Derek was allowed to drink. “Uh, and the beard…er, kind of?” His mind, it is still blown. When Stiles turned twenty he still needed his dad’s help paying his college fees. What? The pitfalls of bureaucracy, man. 

Derek rolls his eyes, which is so achingly familiar that it makes Stiles smile. 

“You’re not out of your depth anymore,” Stiles tells him after a while, meaning it as a compliment.

“Werewolf summer camp,” Derek replies, dry as the desert. 

“Shut up.”

“You always complained about me not talking.”

“Times are a-changing.” 

“You changed,” Derek says wistfully.

“Enough to be fuckable, apparently,” Stiles agrees.

Derek rolls his eyes again. “Yes, Stilinski. That’s what I meant.”

“What did you mean? Or did I ruin the _mood_? Ouch.” Stiles is cackling when he’s roughly shoved back. Derek does not elaborate and Stiles honestly did not expect him to. Just as Stiles is about to say that he should probably get a move on – because he knows how awkward things can be if he outstays his welcome – Derek hauls him closer and breathes deeply against his neck.

“Your scent’s changed,” Derek mumbles. 

“Huh. Is that normal?”

“Yes. You live differently, eat differently…you grew up.”

“So I don’t smell like teenage desperation and Doritos anymore, is what you’re saying.”

Derek huffs a laugh against his neck and, god, sucks a kiss into Stiles’s neck. “That’s it.”

“I never asked, what do people smell like?”

“Like people.”

“Wow, Derek. You made a funny.” Stiles dips his head back to give Derek’s mouth better access all the same. Derek grunts and licks a stripe up Stiles’s throat. Stiles swallows and palms his cock because. _Damn_. 

“People smell different from other animals. Showering dilutes their scent. They smell like blood and sweat and soap and what they had for lunch. What? Did you expect something more exciting like _cinnamon_ and _the woods in sunlight_? Unless you roll around in the forest, you won’t smell like pine trees.” Derek grins at him, another real grin, and Stiles pulls him into a kiss. It is all teeth first. Whatever. Stiles kisses the grin off Derek’s face, teases until Derek puts his mind to it. Derek is pretty good at kissing; he kisses with intent, not as a distraction. 

And then round two follows, in which Stiles’s mouth gets intimately acquainted with other parts of Derek, most importantly Derek’s cock. It is just as perfectly sculpted and sized as the rest of him, and Stiles sucks and licks it with something akin to whorish enthusiasm. He has always liked having things in his mouth. Derek goes still when he comes, just inhales sharply, and Stiles _likes_ it. He likes Derek’s teeth grazing his neck and his hand on his dick even more. 

The next time Stiles wakes up it is 6:53 am. Derek is still asleep. Well, the asleep part is not surprising in itself because most people without a job sleep at 6:53, no, 6:54 in the morning. But Stiles has never seen _Derek_ sleep, mostly because there has never been a reason for him to be in Derek’s bed before. Stiles has seen Derek passed out and bloody, of course. He has seen him dying. But sleep? That’s oddly human and intimate. Derek lies on his side and there is space between them, even though Derek’s hand is almost in touching distance of Stiles’s hip. His hair, still full and black, is flattened at weird angles. It’s nice. Just as Stiles tenses and readies himself to get up, Derek’s eyes open. There is no moment of sleep-dazed confusion, the bastard just stealthily slides from sleep to awareness in the blink of an eye. 

“You can take a shower if you want.”

Stiles nods because he knows where the bathroom is, has washed blood off his hands in it more than once, knows that Derek knows it, too. They’re both very knowledgeable, what can he say. So he slides out of bed, takes a shower, dries himself with one of Derek’s towels, and then goes back to where he left his suit crumpled on the floor and pulls on his pants. 

“You want to borrow a shirt?” Derek asks, watching him. He holds two mugs of coffee and wears sweatpants that do not quite cover his hipbones. Stiles zones out for a moment before realizing that Derek’s waiting for a reply. 

Stiles shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. “Sure.” 

They drink coffee and Stiles wears one of Derek’s T-shirts. It’s blue. Stiles is increasingly confused by this whole bizarre situation where Finstock died in a freak accident with a piano, Stiles ended up in Derek Hale’s bed and stayed overnight, and Derek wears colors. Huh. 

“How long are you going to be in town?” Derek asks as he rinses out his mug. 

“The week. Dad’s not sure whether he’s happy to have me around or annoyed because he can’t eat red meat for a week. Scott’s thrilled because I finally get to update the Bestiary. That is, if I manage to decipher his handwriting.”

“I have some notes, too. You could come over some time and have a look.” And just like that Derek extends his freakish hospitality that has already included a shower and coffee and clothes, and once Stiles is over being gobsmacked he smiles and says that he will.

Once home, he tells his dad that he was out with friends, that he forgot the time and crashed on someone’s sofa, and his dad spots the T-shirt that is not his and does not say a word. They spend the rest of the day on the sofa, watching football, and his dad looks pleased as punch to have Stiles right there. They have veggie lasagna that night and Stiles laughs at his dad’s surprised face when he finds that it is edible. Ha, and they say TV teaches you nothing! 

When Stiles meets up with Scott the next day he talks a lot as he always does but he does not mention Derek. Instead Scott and he laugh and chat, grow a bit melancholy when exchanging stories about Finstock, and give in to nostalgia by playing video games that were the rage when they were in high school. And then Scott tells him about this year’s attacks and threats, the ones that Stiles does not know about already, and gives him a folder filled with bad drawings, print-outs and handwritten notes. Stiles sighs because it is more of a mess than the last pile he got, but then, finding the red thread in a knot of unsorted information is what he does. It is what he excels at and what gives him his kicks. 

The next day he is back at Derek’s loft, carrying Indian takeaway, a clean and folded blue T-shirt and Scott’s notes. Derek lets him in with a smile and they go through Scott’s and Derek’s notes over takeaway and easy banter. Stiles decides that he really likes spending time with this new and improved Derek who is able to laugh like he means it. Stiles texts his dad that he won’t be coming home that night before Derek fucks him for the first time. It leaves Stiles all lackadaisical and unable to talk for half an hour. Derek’s face is stuck between amused and smug, as if he cannot decide what to do with Stiles when he is not talking. When his brain restarts, Stiles tells him that he has got a ridiculous face, no matter what look it carries, but that he is rather fond of it. Derek snorts and kisses him, deep and unhurried, before they fall asleep. 

His dad does not mention that Stiles’s bed remains empty for two more nights that week. 

When Stiles is back at Yale, finishing up his thesis on the ethical implications of reviving cold cases, he and Derek are on the phone every other day. Stiles is surprised that they stay in touch but the more he talks to Derek, or rather, the more Derek talks to him, the less surprising it is. Derek still has a hard time trusting people, connecting to them. Duh. ‘Trust issues’ could be Derek’s middle name. Middle names? Anyway, Stiles cannot blame the man for being cautious, considering his history. Stiles, too, has grown a little more jaded over the years. He used to be able to fall in love and lust hard and easily. But he still pays the price for his dad’s life, will keep on paying it till the day he dies, and the darkness around his heart attracts darkness. By now, he can look back on a run-in with a succubus and a rather horrifying time with Malcolm, his sociopathic ex-boyfriend, of which the supernatural was the lesser evil. Anyway, there is a point. The point is, he can relate. To Derek’s not trusting easily or at all. Loyalty, the real thing, is hard to come by, especially when lives are on the line. 

It does not take a genius to figure out why he and Derek got each other off right after the funeral of their high school coach. Sex is life-affirming. And maybe Derek fucks men now because he’s had nothing but heartbreak and abuse from women. Torture and trauma change a person, even if said person would cut off his arm rather than admit that betrayal affects and still surprises him. Or perhaps Stiles’ attraction lies in being human and safe, a flailing, chattering _constant_. Stiles will not be the person to judge or, worse, ask. Instead Stiles talks about his studies, trivia he discovers on the internet, people he runs into. Derek, in turn, tells him about Cora, his cautious friendship with Chris Argent, and the new juicer he bought to get over his aversion to kale. Neither of them talks about the Mapuche spirit that is currently beleaguering Beacon Hills. Badgering Stiles into doing research for the pack is Scott’s job these days. 

“Are you going to come back once you’re done?” Derek asks him one night. 

“Yeah. Of course,” Stiles is surprised to hear himself say, shocked at how simple and honest this answer is. Of course he is going to go back to Beacon Hills. It has been good to be away, far away for a while but, seriously, where else would he go? Derek is silent in response. “Why, have you been hoping for another five years’ worth of peace and quiet? No such luck, Hale, I’m going to harass your furry ass soon enough.” 

Derek snorts. They have been talking for nearly two months and Stiles understands what Derek is saying between the huffs, the evasive snide remarks and the full-on sarcasm. “So you’d like me to come back, yeah?”

“What do you think?” Derek bites out as if the admission costs him dearly. 

“I don’t know. You could just come visit me or something.” He says it without thinking. 

Derek is silent for a long while and then says, “Okay.” Okay. 

Stiles exhales and then says, “Okay.” Like a _moron_. 

He does not ask whether they are on the same page of this not being a friendly visit for the heck of it. Stiles may be a moron without a brain-to-mouth filter but he isn’t stupid and neither is Derek. And Stiles appreciates it for what it is. Derek’s going out of his way to save someone’s life is not as surprising as Derek’s going the extra mile for something he wants. Given an invitation, given the _permission_ , Derek goes ahead and books a flight for a week in July. Stiles is. Well, he is kind of thrilled. A lot. Because no one has ever come and visited him apart from his dad. Not that Derek is in any way like his dad. Gross. No, Derek is hot like burning and hates it, genuinely _clamping-down completely_ hates it, when Stiles mentions his general startling attractiveness. It takes Stiles a whole week to figure that one out and then he could smack himself. In the face. Repeatedly. 

July comes along and, of course, Derek nearly gives him a heart attack when he turns up _right behind_ Stiles as he is unlocking the door to his apartment block.

“Holy shit!” Stiles shrieks and flails and drops his keys. 

Derek smiles. “I thought you were expecting me,” he says innocently.

Stiles just glares from where he is crouching, fumbling for his keys. “Payback is imminent, asshole.”

Derek’s smile turns into a smirk. The leather jacket is back and he’s wearing it over a white T-shirt. Lurking in monochrome, how very old school of him. Derek saddles his travel bag back on his shoulder and cocks his head, waiting for Stiles to get a grip. “You not going to ask me in?”

Stiles has been staring, admittedly. This is Derek come to visit Stiles not because of impending supernatural doom but because he wants to spend time with him. If he is half as freaked out about this as Stiles… “Fine. Welcome. You’re getting dinner.” 

Stiles’s flatmate is home and looks up from where he is sprawled on the sofa. He’s a physicist with no social life and connections to the supernatural whatsoever. Stiles did a background check on him before he moved in and hopes it is still true. And then he realizes that everyone present is severely socially challenged. Stiles ploughs right ahead to get it over with. 

“Hi, Matt! Derek, Matt. Matt, Derek.” 

Exposed to Derek’s resting face for the first time, Matt’s welcoming smile fades away quickly. He awkwardly turns the little wave into a head scratch. 

“So…just to put your concerns to rest, Derek here looks like a serial killer but the only thing he murders is cereal, I swear. Uh, Derek, let me give you the tour!”

“You need to work on your introductions,” Derek comments when he follows him. Stiles shrugs. Matt is no stranger to social faux pas and he knows Stiles and his tendency to ramble on indefinitely. He shows Derek the kitchen and the bathroom, then leads him to his room, closes the door, pushes past the unease between them and pulls Derek into a hug. There is a second where Derek tenses, but then Stiles is hugged back and everything’s, well, well. And now Stiles can admit to himself that this is a bit weird because they have been talking for months but they haven’t seen each other in just as long. Intimacy established on the phone does not automatically translate to intimacy in person. But then, the man ineptly hugging him back is Derek. Awkward hugging is very _them_.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s neck. Derek does not reply but presses his lips against Stiles’s throat, brief and soft, before pulling away and looking around the room. Stiles watches him as he explores his private space, silent and inquisitive as ever, and pointedly not looking at Stiles. 

“Nice place. I never expected you to be so tidy.”

Stiles pulls a face because seriously? “Yeah, how ‘bout them Dodgers?” 

Derek turns abruptly, startled, before his features soften. “I’m not good at this.” 

“You were quite good at this last time we met,” Stiles tells him. But this is unfamiliar territory in several senses of the word and Derek takes matters of territory seriously. Which means he must be as comfortable as a fish out of the water. Slowly asphyxiating. It’s not a pretty picture. “And when I say quite good, I mean _really_ good. My mind was blown. And I’m still talking conversation skills here, not sexual prowess.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles grins. “Shut up?”

“Shut up!”

Stiles doesn’t shut up though, until Derek makes a frustrated noise and kisses him. Stiles has always been ace at strategy. They make out on the bed for a while. Derek’s stubble is soft against Stiles’s skin, just long enough to be no longer scratchy. There is no hurry, no urgency, just the soft, wet slide of exploring tongues and velvety lips. Derek has his keys in his pocket and they press uncomfortably into Stiles’ hipbone. It’s distracting but so is Derek’s tongue. Stiles is surprised to find that he wants to be gentle with Derek. And knowing that Derek could crush and maul him without much effort, can take numerous arrows to the chest without going down, can survive pretty much any impossible assault on his body, this is an odd desire to have. 

“You’re kind of on dinner duty now for scaring the crap out of me earlier. And then we could go out and have a few drinks that will do absolutely nothing for you but will loosen me up enough to tell you incriminating stories about college,” Stiles eventually says, abrupt and rapid enough to make Derek blink and look at him, fond and exasperated. His lips are still shiny and red and he looks _approachable_. Maybe they should kiss some more. Stiles’s stomach growls. Right, dinner first. 

“Bulgur wheat? Bio eggs?” Derek asks, when he raids Stiles’s supplies. “And organic veggies?”

“Yeah? What of it?” Stiles asks, inwardly preening. His smile drops off his face when Derek sniffs the air.

“Are you,” Stiles starts and then catches himself and lowers his voice to a hiss. “Are you checking if I’m a shape-shifter? Are you kidding me?”

Derek shrugs. “Stranger things have happened, bulgur wheat boy.”

“Pfffft, you sound like my dad. I’ll outlive you all!”

“I don’t recommend it. It’s overrated,” Derek says quietly. Stiles bites his tongue and watches Derek cook. Well, until Derek pushes an onion into his hand and tells him, “Slice it up!”

“Your personal motto, I know,” Stiles teases and knocks their hips together. Derek just shakes his head. And then Stiles cries like a baby. He fucking hates onions. 

They don’t go out. Instead they crash on the couch and watch cooking shows. Derek looks surprisingly comfortable, though never wholly at ease. This is not his territory, it is Stiles and Matt’s, and Matt is a stranger. But Derek seems to enjoy hanging out with Stiles, doing nothing. Sometimes Stiles forgets that Beacon Hills, being what it is, does not allow for many normal days. A good night’s sleep probably counts as a guilty pleasure in Derek’s book. They’ve moved on to watching old episodes of M*A*S*H when Matt shuffles to the bathroom. Derek’s eyes narrow as he watches him cut a straight line across the room. Stiles elbows him in the side and pulls a face. Derek’s eyebrows are not impressed. Stiles rolls his eyes and goes back to watching Hawkeye performing surgery. As far as silent communication goes, they are an old married couple already. The bathroom door creaks open and Matt hurries back to his room without looking up once. 

“You scared my flatmate. You haven’t even talked to him yet,” Stiles stage-whispers. The TV is too loud for Matt to hear, even if his door was open, which it isn’t. Because Derek scares him. 

Derek scoffs, “You introduced me as ‘cereal killer’. I’m sure he is busy appreciating phonology.”

“Would you have preferred Big Bad Wolf?” 

“Would you prefer being punched in the face?”

Stiles grins. “Oh man, I missed this.”

Derek’s mouth twitches but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he finally relaxes into the couch. It’s ridiculously comfy as far as couches go, brown cord that swallows any attempt at movement, and Stiles picked it for that very reason. Derek sighs and lets his head slump against the headrest. Inevitably, Stiles’ eyes are drawn to Derek’s face. He is all sharply defined angles and cheekbones, half-hidden under dense stubble, but his lashes are long and thick and there is a softness to his features that Stiles hasn’t noticed before. The perpetual scowl is long gone, thawed away over the past five years when Stiles was not looking. Perhaps, if Stiles had stayed, he would have missed it, familiarity clouding his gaze. He blinks, as Derek moves his head to check the time. He looks surprised that they have made it through a whole evening, uninterrupted, no monster crashing through to door trying to kill them. Stiles closes his eyes, trying to think of something less morose. Derek is warm and solid beside him and so Stiles thinks of ways to get him naked, his mind keenly and obligingly providing all sorts of strategies. 

He shouldn’t have worried. As it turns out, Derek did not even bring pyjamas. 

The thing with sex is, it gets better with practice. Stiles is obsessive about close to everything that even remotely peaks his interested and, well, sex is awesome and sex with Derek peaks his interest a lot. Not just because Derek would visually please the gods but because he is someone Stiles never knew he wanted, badly. It’s like tasting a new, really weird ice cream flavour and realising that this is what has been missing from his life. So yeah, sex with Derek is totally relevant to his interests for many reasons and Stiles is a quick and eager study. Further study of Derek, however, reveals that he is as big on intimacy issues as he is on trust issues. 

What Stiles has learnt so far is that Derek doesn’t want his tongue anywhere near his stomach and he hates being held down by his wrists. Derek isn’t animalistic and rough, instead he is quietly intense, thorough and overwhelmingly _affectionate_. For all his aversion to objectification, Derek uses his body to please, allowing Stiles to admire by touch, and, in turn, is visibly turned on by Stiles’ eager appreciation. Of course Stiles can’t be silent. He talks, rambles really, which is how he finds out, in a disheartening turn of events, that Derek loves being asked what he likes and how. The fact that Derek is not used to being asked this and cared for in a way _he_ likes, that he doesn’t expect it at all, is plainly awful. Learning how to make Derek feel good, yeah, Stiles can do that. It now ranks at the top of his list of Things Stiles Could Devote his Life to. Because Derek makes the best noises, all fraught and desperate, as if they’re being pulled out of him against his will. Stiles feels a little guilty because Derek has had many things taken from him against his will, and orgasms should not be among them. But then, Stiles has a mean streak and Derek knows that. 

Derek is not big on cuddling, not right away anyway. It takes him a couple of minutes before he moves closer on his own, as though he has to brace himself for post-coital petting. What a chore, right? Yet for all of Stiles’ fondness of instant gratification, he _can_ be patient. It’s just really hard. No pun intended. So he suggests getting some water to bridge the gap between killer blowjob and rambunctious spooning. Derek looks, well, relieved, and gives him one of his small, private smiles that appear exclusively in moments like these. He pulls on his jeans, while Stiles is still struggling to make his legs work, and strides out of the room. 

Stiles follows Derek into the kitchen and then Derek goes on to discover that the bathroom is occupied by Matt. Stiles’ flatmate makes a high-pitched noise when he opens the door and comes face to face with a shirtless Derek, who waits silently for Matt to move out of the way. Okay, who is Stiles kidding, the man is _looming_ with intent like the creepy werewolf that he is. Stiles can, well, he can sympathise. With Matt. As soon as the door closes behind Derek, Matt rushes over to Stiles. 

“Hey, Stiles. Not to question your taste in, uh, friends. But, uhm. Are you sure he isn’t, uh, dangerous?” he whispers. Stiles pities Matt a little. The attempt at privacy is futile because of course Derek can hear him at this distance, if he tries, and knowing his twisted sense of humour he just might. 

_Not to you_ , is what Stiles thinks in response to Matt’s question. “Dude, relax! I’ve known Derek since I was sixteen and I’m still alive, aren’t I?” is what he says, conveniently leaving out the part where others weren’t as lucky. 

Matt is smart and endowed with a healthy dose of survival instincts so he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “He won’t steal any of my stuff, right?”

At that, Stiles can’t help cackling. “No!” he protests, wheezing. “He won’t steal your shit. Derek’s, like, rich. And he’s not a criminal, Jesus.” All charges were dropped, after all, and Peter doesn’t count since he came back to life. 

“Okay. I trust your judgment, man,” says Matt. With that he grabs an apple and heads back to his room. Stiles just grins because someone trusting his judgment without Stiles having to save their asses at least once? How awesome is that? On the other hand, it proves that Matt’s instincts aren’t that great. Stiles just lied to his face and brought a supernatural predator to his home. Yeah, Stiles is used to being morally opaque but that does not mean he is not self-aware. 

He is back in his room when Derek comes in, carrying his jeans. 

“I borrowed your towel,” he tells Stiles, unnecessarily, because the towel has a Death Star pattern and of course it is Stiles’. Stiles hasn’t stopped having impeccable taste when he left for college. The towel rides temptingly low on Derek’s hips and there are drops of water disappearing into the folds. Stiles licks his lips.

“You really shouldn’t have.”

Derek huffs a laugh and drops the towel. And Stiles. Well, Stiles just stares for a moment longer because he is allowed.

From then on the visit is smooth sailing. Stiles shows Derek around campus, drags him into his favorite pig-out places and they do some sightseeing. They go for a run every morning and have a lot of increasingly spectacular sex. All is well until Thursday when Derek discovers that one of his coffee buddies from the library is a werewolf. It’s not as if they’re close friends or anything but of course Stiles knew that she gets all _raaawr_ and glowy eyes during the full moon when they started hanging out. And maybe he secretly prefers the company of supernatural creatures because they remind him of home. The point is, he did not tell Derek or Scott and he did not expect to run into Imogen with Derek, even though, in fairness, they all stand in line for coffee at the coffee shop Stiles and Imogen both call their second home. Stiles spots her the moment she turns around to smile and wave at him. 

Only then Derek and the girl have some kind of stare-off, which makes Stiles roll his eyes and mutter about pissing contests. 

Stiles elbows Derek in the side. “Relax, she’s a friend of mine.”

Imogen lets out a startled laugh. “Hey,” she says, immediately leaving her place in the line to shake Derek’s hand. In the not so good old days, Derek would have dragged her into a dark alley and growled her into submission. Stiles is understandably tense. Derek, however, surprises him by taking her hand and introducing himself politely. With a _smile_. It’s a fake one, Stiles can tell, but it looks less fake these days because Stiles got used to seeing genuine ones. 

“So I guess this is one of your friends from home?” Imogen asks Stiles. 

“Uh, yeah.” Eloquent is what Stiles is. 

Imogen grins. “Well, Derek, I’d like to say that he mentions you a lot but Stiles is pretty mum about his life away from college.” 

Derek’s face is still smiling but doesn’t give anything away and luckily it is their turn to order. Once they have their coffee they make their way to a dark corner table with mismatched comfy chairs. Stiles loves that table because it is embraced by two walls and has a good view of the entire shop. Derek moves along without even raising an eyebrow but Stiles doesn’t need to check if he is okay with Imogen’s joining them.

“Just to get this out of the way, I mean no harm,” Imogen says quietly as she settles into one of the comfy chairs. Stiles has to strain his ears to catch what she is saying. But then they are in a public place and werewolves are nothing if not paranoid. “Stiles found me out when I nearly choked on a muffin and my eyes gave me away. I was bitten when I was ten so I have the shift under control. When I’m not choking, I mean. My pack’s in Vermont.” Imogen’s thin face never loses its pleasant, helpful expression. 

Derek looks at her for a long moment before he asks, “Did he help you with the muffin?”

Imogen snorts. “Depends on how you define ‘help’.” Derek gives Stiles an inquisitive look.

“I may have told her not to get her claws anywhere near my printouts,” Stiles explains, gesturing animatedly. What? He’d spent twenty bucks on copies that month.

Derek laughs. It scrunches up his face, turns him from otherworldly handsome into approachable and cute, which is a really good look on him and one Stiles is still getting used to. He did not even know that Derek’s face was capable of doing that. Imogen, unaware of anything world-shattering about Derek’s endearing laugh, simply reacts, smiles warmly. 

They drink coffee and chat a bit about the challenges of studying away from home.

“Where did you go to college, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Derek shrugs. “I went to school in New York.” Derek has told Stiles during one of their phone conversations that he had been studying French and Spanish at Columbia when shit had gone down in Beacon Hills. With Laura dead, he did not go back to finish his degree but for Derek it had never been about a job qualification, it had been about finding a distraction, something to focus on. Before they enter dangerous territory, talking about family and friends, Imogen grabs her bag.

“It was nice to meet you. I was wondering if Stiles’ friends from home were all imaginary. You’re the first to visit.” Imogen knits gloves in her free time and she likes Tyler Swift, so Stiles knows that she did not mean the remark to be cutting. This is why he smiles and awkwardly waves goodbye.

When she is well out of earshot, Derek asks, “Why is that, Stiles?”

Stiles huffs. “Flights are expensive, okay.”

Derek looks taken aback because he’s squatted for years for reasons but even then he’d been unreasonably rich. “This wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d just said som--”

“Derek, just don’t. All right? And I’m home three times a year and I Skype with Scott and my dad and even Malia sometimes. Imogen…she made me sound like some weird loner and I’m not! I have friends,” Stiles says, and yes, he knows that he protests too much. “I just didn’t want to tell her about you guys because I’m freaking paranoid that… you know.” He gestures helplessly. 

Stiles worries, he always worries that trouble might find the people he cares about at home, that something he says would make some creature want to go there to claim and kill. And it would be easy to be lulled into a false sense of security, here, where nothing ever happens. Well, nothing supernatural anyway. The werewolves here at school knit and choke on muffins. 

“Stiles!” 

“Wha-What?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I asked if you’re sure you want to come back. This place seems…nice.”

“Yeah.” Stiles makes a face. It is nice. He used to have nightmares the first two years and then he got better. He learnt to sleep through the night. But Stiles will go back to Beacon Hills because now he has nightmares about deadlines and career options and neither Scott nor his dad is safe, not as safe as Stiles is when he’s thousands of miles away, writing his thesis and having no use whatsoever for mountain ash. God, it’s so terribly _boring_!

He licks his lips and tries to formulate an answer that does not make him sound certifiable. “It’s nice and quiet and I’m not. Why do you think I keep updating the Besti--, the database?”

“Habit? And I didn’t know you were doing it before your last visit. Scott never said a word.”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip, guiltily. “About that…I asked him to keep it quiet. See, everyone left after high school and after everything that’s happened I needed a break. I needed normal and quiet. Lydia, too, I think. And then I got normal and quiet and took a year off from school, got nearly killed by my through-and-through-human ex boyfriend, needed more normal and quiet after that…” Stiles trails off as he feels Derek tense next to him. If the pack had been close by, Malcolm wouldn’t have been lucky enough to get arrested. “…until now, kind of, because it’s become too damn normal and quiet.”

“I won’t stop you,” Derek says after a while, and it’s as much of a verbal admission of fondness as Stiles is going to get, so he responds in the way Derek trusts the most and reaches for Derek’s hand, trails his fingers over it. Derek closes his eyes for a long moment, smiles again. 

When the week is over, Stiles is genuinely sad to say goodbye and he doesn’t change the bedding because it smells like Derek and sex. It’s a bit gross but at twenty-four he is allowed to be gross. Stiles goes back to writing his thesis and calling Derek every few days, and skyping with Scott twice a week, and having coffee with Imogen every now and then. But he is jittery now because mentally he is _done_ and he wants to go home.

So of course it is when he packed and shipped most of his stuff back home he realizes that he is unemployed and about to move back in with his dad. Stiles prefers to think of it as temporary, as most graduates do. And he is employable, especially in a place like Beacon Hills, he is. Still, going back feels a bit like regressing now that he’s packed up his adult life. Well, college life. Well. Life.

“Take care, Stiles,” Imogen says into their goodbye hug. They may never see each other again and Stiles is strangely okay with that. She filled a hole, represented a tangible connection to the supernatural world, and now that he is going back to California, Imogen is going to become a memory, her long, serious face an abstract, timeless etching in his past. Oh yeah, and the look on her face when she nearly choked on a muffin, he’ll never forget _that_.

“You, too,” he says. Neither of them says, _I’ll miss you_.

***

After nearly six years, he is back home. His dad hugs him at the airport and doesn’t let go for a good minute. They get pizza on the way home, even though the Sheriff has gained a bit of weight. And then Stiles stands in the middle of his room, cluttered with boxes, his freaking life squeezed into the restraints of his childhood room. It’s so, so weird! 

“Son, I’m glad you’re back but you look like you’ve outgrown this place,” his dad says, perceptive as ever.

By the end of the second day, Stiles knows that on top of a job he has to find a place to live. 

Scott, bless him, is delighted to have Stiles back for good. He’s over nearly every day. Stiles missed him, missed having him around all the time, so much. He’s also all up in Stiles’s business, suggesting places where he can apply. Stiles, in turn, is all up in Scott’s business, pack business to be precise. 

Which is how he ends up chained to a wall in a basement. Stiles is sure that he must be insane to have missed this. 

“Why don’t you have your phone on you?” he hisses at Scott, who is chained up next to him, just out of reach and weakened by wolfsbane. His own phone has been crushed with the butt of a crossbow when Stiles attempted to dial Derek. 

“Because I forgot it at Kira’s. Yeah, I get that it’s stupid, don’t give me that look.”

“Why don’t you just move in together?” 

Scott frowns, confused. “You’re not seriously asking that now?”

Stiles, who has got a bit rusty with handcuffs, huffs in frustration. “What would you like to talk about, Scott? How you didn’t tell Kira about my suspicion about her co-worker?” 

“Well, it seems less paranoid in hindsight,” Scott admits, contrite.

“You think?”

A door opens. There is a loud crash and their captors are shouting and shooting. Then there is screaming and more shooting. Scott _roars_. Stiles pulls and twists and, finally, his hands are free, just in time to stumble to his feet on numb legs and help Danny who’s dragging a bloody, half-conscious Derek into the room where they’re being held. The rescue team has arrived and as usual Derek volunteered to catch enemy bullets with his body. Danny is followed by Liam who rushes over and cuts Scott loose, werewolf claws cutting through the metal with ease. 

“We got three of them before they got Derek. I think there are three more.”

“Four,” Stiles corrects him. He counted. “Shit, Derek.” Of course he had to get himself shot by wolfsbane bullets. What a great trip down memory lane. 

“Bad shots,” Derek wheezes. “They hit the walls a lot.” Stiles bites back a reply about Derek doing a good impression of a wall in that case. 

“Okay,” says Liam, clearly missing the point.

“What’s the plan?” Danny asks. When Stiles doesn’t react, he pulls his arm. “Stiles, what’s the plan?”

“Uh, we need at least two of those bullets for the wolfsbane. Really, now. Better yesterday, I’m just saying.”

“I’m on it. Liam with me. Danny, you stay here,” Scott commands, still shaky from being drugged with wolfsbane himself. He and Liam move silently to the door. They are being shot at as soon as they move out of the room. 

“Hold on,” Stiles hisses at Derek and grabs his hand, squeezing tight. 

“Not much else to do,” Derek replies and coughs black blood. Danny curses under his breath.

“Is there anything I can do?” 

Stiles thinks. “Maybe we can slow it down if we can get the bullets out. I’ll need your claws and you’d better not get queasy.”

Danny huffs, resigned. “All right.”

Stiles is not okay with Derek dying. He may not have gone to see him in the week he’s been back but he was busy unpacking, settling in and angsting about the next steps in his life. The possibility of there not being a next step for him and Derek is seriously unacceptable. There is a grey hue to Derek’s face that is scaring the crap out of him. That and the black blood. 

“Derek, I swear I’ll kill you myself if you die the minute I move back to Beacon Hills, you asshole!”

Liam falls into the room, taking a bit of wall with him. “Got it!” he shouts and hold up his fist triumphantly. 

“Thank God.” Danny looks white as a sheet, clearly not quite as okay with extracting wolfsbane bullets with his claws as he pretended to be.

“Give them here!” Stiles tries to crack one open but his hands are slippery with Derek’s blood. 

“Here.” Danny takes both bullets. “What do I do?”

“Open them. We need to burn the wolfsbane and push it into the wounds.”

“Right,” Danny says in a tone of voice that means he is rethinking his life decisions and especially the one where he became a werewolf after being knifed a year ago. 

Stiles is still in the habit of carrying a lighter for exactly these occasions. Old habits die hard. “Where is Scott?” he asks, distracted by all the blood, black and red, red and black, as he hands Danny the lighter. Liam growls and darts away again. “Great.” Meanwhile, Danny managed to ignite the wolfsbane. There is barely enough of it but Stiles can make do. With trembling hands he reaches for the scorching ashes, searing his fingertips in the process. 

“This will hurt,” he mutters and pushes a small quantity into each of the holes. Derek’s body twists as the entry wounds smoke and smoulder. _Good_ , Stiles’ brain provides. He would not be squirming in pain if he was dead. Derek draws in deep, rasping breaths while the herbal mumbo-jumbo is going on. 

Then he rolls over, props himself up against the wall and glares at Stiles with bright luminescent eyes. “You’re back.”

That’s when Scott and Liam enter the room. They look a bit singed and bloody but whatever wounds they had are already healed. 

“We gotta get out of here.” Scott urges. “The co-worker escaped and we don’t know if there are more.”

“Let’s take this to Chris,” Stiles suggests before nodding to Danny. They hoist Derek up by his arms and steady him as they slowly make their way out of the building. 

They’re in the car and on their way to Derek’s loft when Scott says, “How did the apartment hunting go?”

“Well. Until you called me, ignored my advice and we got summarily kidnapped by morally compromised hunters.”

“Way to hold a grudge, man,” Scott complains. “Right, we’re here. Do you need help, Derek?”

“I’m good.” Derek, though no longer riddled by bullets, is still white as a sheet, but his body must be nearly healed and he gets out of the car on steady legs. 

“I’ll go with him. You guys catch up with Chris.”

“I’ll check in on Kira first,” Scott protests. 

“Whatever, dude. Just get going and be careful,” Stiles says and gives his best friend an encouraging smile. They’ve managed so far, his buddy got this. He follows Derek up to the loft. Derek goes straight to his kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. He looks drained and wary, a bit too much like the Derek of old. 

“Shit, Derek, you scared me!” Stiles’ voice is loud, too loud, in the silent loft.

Derek looks surprised by his outburst. “You got kidnapped.” 

“You nearly got killed.”

“I’m okay.”

Stiles closes in on him. “You don’t look okay. Better than when you were coughing up blood, sure, but not okay.” Derek’s phone rings. One expressive eyebrow twitches as he answers. 

“Yes. He’s fine. Sure,” Derek says looking over to him, before pushing his phone into Stiles’ chest. “Your dad.”

Derek’s taking a shower while Stiles is on the phone. It’s not pretty. After a thorough dressing-down by his father Stiles is done with this day and he collapses onto Derek’s couch with a groan. 

“You might want to shower, too,” Derek suggests and Stiles, who did not hear him come in, jumps and curses. Only then does he look down and sees that his clothes are a bloody, sooty mess, and his hands are spotted a rusty red and ominous black. 

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.” 

Derek gives him a long look. “You okay, Stiles?”

“What, why?”

“You’re shaking.”

“It’s just the shock.” Stiles shrugs it off and takes a shower. The black is the hardest to get off but Stiles scrubs and scrubs until his arms and hands are pink and the trembling stops. 

Derek’s on the couch when he comes back. Stiles drops down beside him. 

“I borrowed some of your clothes.”

“It’s fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe next time let me know you’re back in town before getting kidnapped by hunters.”

Werewolves are tricky, aren’t they? Derek’s body is immaculate, no trace of scarring, no wounded flesh, despite taking four bullets mere hours ago. Stiles shudders at the thought of nearly losing him, knows that this is what’s bothering Derek, too, only Derek carries other scars that even he tries to deny exist most of the time. Out of sight, out of mind. So Stiles shifts closer and pulls Derek against his chest. 

“I’m sorry. Sorry for not coming to see you earlier. I had a bout of nerves about my future and all and I forgot that there is no time like the present in Beacon Hills. I’ve been busy getting used to being back and, yes, not telling you was a dickish move. Being back in my old room is depressing as hell. I love my dad and I know he’s thrilled that I’m back but it’s like being stuck in the time warp, doing it again and again, if you know what I mean. Aaaand now I’m realising what a fucked up thing it is to tell you that.”

Derek, who allowed himself to be manhandled into a side-hug and smushed against Stiles’s chest, pulls away. 

“Stiles, I do realise that not everything is about me. If you’re looking for a place to live, you could just stay here. Isaac lived here for a while and Cora did, too. I have enough space.”

And Stiles gapes open-mouthed and he isn’t proud of it. Just before he gets a chance at insulting both their intelligence by arguing that it’s not the same, he realises that he’d be insulting both their intelligence. Derek _knows_ and even though he’s clearly still pissed off at Stiles for being in town for a week without letting him know, he apparently still trusts Stiles enough to offer sharing his loft with him. And, martyr complex aside which he’s exercised _plenty_ today, Derek would not be offering if he didn’t want Stiles here. At least that’s what Stiles thinks. Hopes, really. 

Also, Stiles is still staring and Derek’s eyes watch him process the offer. He looks strangely entertained by the show.

Stiles clears his throat. “Are you serious? 

“Deadly.”

“Well, if you’re deadly serious…” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“So, yes?”

“Yeah, I guess. What’s the rent?”

“Stiles, I own the building.”

“Oh, yeah, forgot. Good to have a rich boyfriend, huh?”

Derek looks a bit startled, as if their relationship had not come to his mind when he offered, which is of course ridiculous. 

“Derek?”

“Just…yes or no, Stiles?”

It’s kind of a no-brainer. “Yeah. You’re gonna help me move, right? Put those muscles to good use?”

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches. “Shut up.”

Stiles hums, pleased. 

The sheriff is not surprised when Stiles tells him where he’s moving, which most definitely surprises Stiles, as he has yet to mention that he’s with Derek now and has been for months. Stiles would be lying if he said that he does not know why he’s kept this rather important piece of information to himself. The pack survived worse than a bad breakup, so that’s not it. But Stiles learnt to keep things to himself over the years, when he was surrounded by people who would not understand about the darkness that comes from being a proxy sacrifice to a magical tree, and now it’s hard to slip back into the habit of sharing with the people who do. Luckily, pack means family. Scott does not think it odd that Stiles would move in with Derek because Stiles needs a place to stay and Derek has space, it’s that simple. And maybe this is what Derek had in mind after all. 

***

There are perks to living with Derek. Derek is a neat freak. Stiles finds this oddly endearing, especially because Derek unpacks most of Stiles’ stuff after merely two days of waiting impatiently for Stiles to do it himself. Ha!

Derek spends about two hours exercising his amazing body every morning, which is undoubtedly the reason it is so amazing. The exercise is brutal, meant to hone and sharpen, steel and perfect. Sometimes Stiles joins him, sometimes he is too turned on just watching him. Sometimes Stiles’ ongoing commentary and bad puns make Derek lob his water bottle at Stiles. He rarely misses. It’s totally worth a few bruises though because this is how Stiles finds out that Derek likes to be rimmed in the shower after workouts. Stiles is happy to oblige. Hey, he does not have a job yet. 

The downside of sharing space with Derek is that he now lives where a multitude of people died. Stiles gets goosebumps whenever he passes the spot where Derek was made to kill Boyd and he can’t help but wonder why Derek stayed, why he didn’t just move somewhere where violence hadn’t painted the walls red twice over. 

Two weeks after Stiles moves in, the alarm goes off and Kira’s co-worker shoots her way inside. Predictable like Swiss clockwork, Derek roars and throws himself in front of Stiles. Still clutching the wok he meant to use for making dinner, Stiles rolls aside and hides behind the kitchen counter. He may be out of practice but he’s learnt from his mistakes and has his new phone on him. He texts Scott while he listens to Derek’s snarling and the hunter’s shooting. If he was Derek, he’d be backing the anti-gun lobby so hard. 

It does not take long for the hunter to actually hit her target. Derek was never any good at close combat, which is, after all, why Scott is in charge. Derek goes down with an agonised groan and Stiles draws in a shocked breath. 

He peeks out from behind the counter. “So what do you want, exactly? I mean, sure Beacon Hills is a supernatural magnet but Chris Argent has it covered, right?” A bullet gets deflected by the wok and he yelps and ducks behind the counter again. 

Co-worker laughs. “Chris is the last Argent, I don’t think you can say he’s got anything covered. Beacon Hills is plagued by a True Alpha and his pack and we’ve been waiting and watching for Argent to handle it, but he hasn’t lifted a finger against any of you in years.”

“And that doesn’t make you wonder if maybe there was no reason for him to lift a single digit? Lady, there’s a code and hunters who break it get dead.” 

“Every war has casualties,” she says callously. Stiles is insanely grateful for Derek’s preference of metal over wood when another round of bullets is fired at the counter. _Ping, ping, ping_. Stiles grips the wok tightly with sweat-slick fingers. _Talk, talk, talk_ , stalling is what may get him out alive. There is no life sign from Derek and Stiles is silently freaking out. 

“War shouldn’t involve civilians and we’re not harming anyone. Well, except maybe you now that you gunned down my friend.”

The hunter laughs and comes closer. “You’re not a wolf, you’re human and you have no weapon. Get better friends and you may live longer.”

Stiles knows that she expects him to have _something_ with which he deflected a bullet. He also knows that she’ll expect him to come at her face or upper body, so when he sees her legs, he swings the wok sideways and hits her in the chins as hard as he can. She falls forward and shoots at him, missing his torso by a few inches. The bullet merely grazes his arm, which stings but isn’t life-threatening. He holds up the wok defensively, knowing that his luck is bound to run out any second. 

“Allison Argent was my friend. She would have done this,” he grinds out and throws himself at her. She knocks him aside and the rim of the wok cuts into his chin as his head hits the counter, hard. A roar erupts from the door and Stiles irrationally hopes it’s Derek. But it’s Scott and Liam who barge inside, eyes glowing and fangs flashing. Stiles thinks that he hears Kira’s voice, too, but pain blooms at the back of his head and his chin feels numb. He must have blacked out for a second because Co-worker is gone from the kitchen but there are fighting noises nearby. Stiles blinks until the world gets back into focus. He sits up with difficulty, reaching for his head. His hand comes away bloody, which is just great. Vertigo hits him as he tries to get to his feet; he slumps back down and tries to crawl out of the kitchen. The first thing Stiles sees is Scott slashing at the hunter with his claws. She ducks away but Liam attacks her from behind and the hunter finally goes down. Any relief Stiles feels is short-lived; he still hasn’t located Derek. Kira rushes over to him, trying to still Stiles’ movements. Her sword makes a clunking noise when it clatters to the floor.

“Stiles, stay down, you’ve got a really nasty head wound,” she urges him. 

“Derek!” Stiles calls, obstinate. His head is spinning and he tries to blink away dark spots.

“Oh shit!” Scott must have found Derek.

“ – alive?” Stiles slurs.

“Get me her gun, I need the wolfsbane bullets,” Stiles hears Scott yell before the world goes black.

***

Stiles wakes up in his bed. He expected to be in the hospital, so he blinks in surprise. Scott is folded into an armchair next to the bed. He must have moved it there. 

“Dude, you’re awake! Thank god. You really scared me for a minute. Well, two hours, which is how long you were out. My mom was here and stitched you up. Apparently head wounds always look worse than they are. How are you feeling?”

“Awesome.” Stiles groans, feeling around on his head. It’s bandaged all right and there is a big plaster below his chin. 

“Yeah, you got yourself banged up good. Derek was livid.”

“Derek’s okay?” Stiles lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“It was a near thing. She was a good shot. Chris is dealing with her now.”

“You didn’t kill her?”

Scott looks confused. “No?”

“Interesting,” is all Stiles has to say. It’s a miracle that Scott’s moral compass survived this long. Stiles’ went out of the window years ago. 

“So, you and Derek.”

“Huh?” Stiles is taken by surprise by the sudden change of topic.

“There’s only one bed here, Stiles. And he was really worried, man.”

“Yeah.” Stiles sighs. 

“That’s all? You pester me about Kira and me taking the next step, moving in together after only a year of dating again. Meanwhile you move your stuff here. This must be serious, yeah? Stiles?” Scott has the persistent look on his face that means that he won’t even let Stiles play the injured card. 

Stiles sighs some more. “So this kind of started after Finstock’s funeral.”

“That was _months_ ago!”

Stiles’s head still hurts but it is a dull thumping now. “I know. We kept in touch and he came and visited me. We get along these days. I don’t know what you want me to say, Scott. It is what it is. It’s good.” And a small part of Stiles fears that if he enthuses too much, it will be snatched away from him, all of it. He cannot quite get the sound out of his mind, the noise Derek made when he was hit.

“I didn’t even know Derek swung that way.”

“He does.” Stiles nearly manages a shrug but then the pain in his arm reminds him that a bullet grazed him earlier. 

“Yeah, I could see that when he clung to your unconscious body Titanic style.”

Stiles hears the door to the loft open and close, and then Derek appears in Stiles’ line of vision. “Got you the painkillers Melissa told me to get.”

Stiles nods, unable to hold back a relieved smile at the sight of Derek who is pale but very much alive. 

“You too! You never said a word. You two can’t treat this as a secret tryst, you live together for heaven’s sake,” Scott says, accusingly.

Derek scoffs. “Not my fault that you never learnt how to use your nose.”

Scott huffs and puffs and heads out shortly afterwards. “Stiles, call me when you’re better. Mom said you should stay in bed for a day or two.” 

Stiles stays in bed, because Melissa is always right, and Derek crawls in beside him. He touches Stiles lightly, as if to make sure that he is really there, and then the bastard tries to stealthily drain his pain.

“I’m okay. You’re white as a ghost, gimme the damn pain killers and keep your paws to yourself. Not literally, jeez, just the healing thing.”

Derek’s eyebrows are judging him. “You look like a mummy.”

“Yeah, you were pretty badly hit yourself. Just because my injuries don’t heal in a few minutes --”

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles glares but then falls asleep almost instantly. Over the next twenty-four hours he drifts in and out of consciousness. Derek is always there, awake, his eyes trained on Stiles. Sometimes Stiles wakes up to light, tender, affectionate kisses to his arm, his neck, his cheek; sometimes it is a heavy, distant look that greets him. 

He snaps, the next evening, after Derek follows him to the bathroom and back. “What? Out with it, Hale!” he demands, as he crawls into bed. Derek hovers. 

“You could have died.”

“So could you. You went down like a sack of flour, Derek.”

“I’m a werewolf.”

“She had wolfsbane bullets.”

“Doesn’t make them less deadly to humans.”

“Makes them equally deadly to werewolves though. I have nightmares about pushing wolfsbane into your mangled torso. For the last two years my worst nightmare was unemployment.”

Derek flinches. A change of topic may be good, so Stiles says, “On the plus side, Scott knows.”

“Great, so the next time you’re in mortal peril, he will know why.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Derek! There is no curse on your dick. Not everyone you fuck dies.”

Derek’s eyes go cold. “Maybe you shouldn’t have come back.”

By now Stiles is so angry he is gnashing his teeth. “ _Ugh_ , you are so, so infuriating! You asked me to come back. You asked me to move in. You. Asked. Me. So why are you looking at me like this right now? Derek?”

Derek’s face hardens and his teeth lengthen as he snaps, “Because I love you. Happy now?”

And yeah, that actually, sadly, explains a lot. Stiles makes a frustrated noise, pulls Derek down onto the bed and grabs him by the chin, ignores his snarling. 

“You are an insensitive, sarcastic asshole.” Derek cringes, tries to pull back, but Stiles has him by the chin, hard. “You are! You are a rude dick and so am I! And because I am an insensitive, sarcastic asshole and a rude dick I say insensitive, rude things that are meant to hurt you. And I can do that because I know you and I know you so well because I fucking care about you and your damn well-being and continued existence, you _prick_. You sacrificing yourself like it’s nothing is not okay! Derek, listen! You’re important to me, all right? And I promise not to use your werewolf powers for any nefarious purposes, I won’t use your beauty to get my way without your consent ever again and I won’t trick you into doing shit you’re morally opposed to. And that’s not because I love you, even though I do, man, I love you so much, but because I’m not a sociopath with homicidal and sadistic cravings who is just bound to end up dead after challenging Scott McCall. I won’t do any of that because it’s wrong, okay? So don’t look at me like that!”

Derek just stares at him, wide-eyed and shocked, any trace of the wolf gone. Stiles gives him a moment to digest this verbal onslaught before pressing a dry kiss to his tightly-drawn lips. “It’s okay to love me,” he says, quietly, even though his heart is hammering away in his chest. “We can be emotionally constipated together.”

Derek snorts. “Understatement.”

“Now please stop with this self-sacrificial streak. My arm hurts. If you want to do your martyr thing, be a babe and take my pain.”

Derek’s face breaks into a smile. “No. You can take it. Because you’re an insensitive sarcastic asshole.”

Stiles smiles back. “Fine.” He settles back against the headboard, shuffles over to make room for Derek. 

“Anything else you want to get off your chest?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I want to move out.” Derek freezes and Stiles rolls his eyes. “With you. This place is just…not even feng shui could save it, okay? There is so much dark energy here, even Kira’s evil co-worker came here first, even though she knew where Scott lives.”

“You want _us_ to move?”

“That’s what I just said. We might even find another place with industrial chic fit for your broody hobo tendencies.”

“I believe it’s you who needs a job. Have you considered stand-up comedy?” 

“Many times. But you’re the only one who thinks I’m funny.”

Derek laughs, still not quite okay but getting there. They are both getting there. 

Finally, Derek slides into bed with Stiles. They shift a bit, getting comfortable, and then Derek picks up _The Historian_ and reads to Stiles until he falls asleep.

In the morning Stiles wakes up to Derek’s tongue licking into his ass. He’s sleepy and warm and really hard. 

“Not that I don’t... _ah_ …appreciate it but…why is your tongue in my ass?”

Derek pulls back, making Stiles aware of the damp, irritated skin from Derek’s stubble. “Would you rather have my fingers?”

Stiles shudders with pleasure. “I dunno. You seem to be making good decisions for a change. Continue making good decisions.” 

Derek does. He nips at his buttocks, licks Stiles open, fucks him slowly and torturous with his tongue, until Stiles is a desperate mess. When Derek pulls away eventually, Stiles tries to push up, but a hand on his back holds him firmly in place. 

“Yeah, no. You’re not straining your arm. Turn around,” Derek directs him. Limbs heavy like molasses, Stiles complies, already stupid with lust. He’s manhandled with werewolf strength and a pillow is pushed under his hips. Stiles licks his lips and watches Derek slick himself up with lube. 

And then he drapes Stiles’ legs high over his hips and _slowly_ pushes his cock inside, proceeding with what can only be described as claustrophobic morning sex. Because this isn’t fucking. Derek finds leverage by pushing his arms under Stiles shoulders, cradling him as though they just happen to be horizontal by accident, and then he falls silent. Face buried in Stiles’ neck, he starts a slow, steady pace. Stiles is…not sure he’s ready for this. It’s good. So fucking _good_. Derek cock drags on his sensitive rim with every thrust and it’s so deep it hurts, it feels like Derek is trying to mold into him. And Stiles gets it, okay, he understands, and clings to Derek, holds him tight and close in return. Derek’s breathing picks up, and he makes now familiar quietly desperate noises into the damp valley of Stiles throat, but his hips keep up the same maddeningly slow rhythm and it goes on for what feels like ages. Inout, inout, inout. No, this isn’t fucking. Stiles’ throat tightens and he blinks away tears because it’s too good and too much and not quite enough. Only then his orgasm is punched out of him and Stiles cries out in surprise, the sound raw and shocked. And Derek holds him impossibly tighter and presses his lips against Stiles’ pulse point, thrusting a bit harder now. He comes silently, holds himself as deep as he can get. Stiles can feel him trembling through his climax, and he’s so close that Derek is like an extension of him. Derek’s still holding on tightly, even though they’re stuck together by sweat and Stiles’ come, but it’s as though they’re not done yet, and then Stiles feels more wetness where Derek is crying into his neck. Stiles moves one hand up to his head, threads his fingers through Derek’s thick hair, rakes them in circles meant to be soothing, although his own face is wet, too, and his vision blurry. 

They lie like this for a long time, Derek softening inside him. When he lifts his head eventually, Derek’s eyes are red and his lashes clumped together by tears. He looks exhausted and younger than Stiles has ever seen him.

His voice is so soft that Stiles nearly misses it. “Don’t die, okay?” 

And Stiles smiles, still too shaken to make it look anything but helpless and whispers, “Okay.” Like a moron. 

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write the aftermath of a sex scene in which neither Derek nor Stiles had been nursing an unrequited crush for years. I was intrigued by the concept of the two of them trusting each other with their lives but not being very close otherwise, and the story grew and grew until there was something resembling plot - it's more of a character study with an unreliable narrator. 
> 
> Apologies to all the Finstock fans.


End file.
